Sugar Birds

by Cheryl Grey Bostrom

  “I’m fine. Really busy with the Franklin deal. That’s why I left so, well, so suddenly, you know? So are you having fun at your grandma’s?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Is Mender there? May I speak to her?”

  “She is.” I held the phone out to Gram, but she shook her head and returned the ladle to the pot. She flipped her hands, shooing the receiver back to me. “But she’s not available.” My voice quavered.

  “I didn’t want to involve you in this, but I have papers for your father to sign. Would you please have him call me?”

  I jotted the number on my napkin. “I’ll give him the message.”

  Then her voice again, quieter. “Thank you.” Quieter, but not kinder. I knew the difference.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, just tell him time is of the essence.”

  “All right.”

  “And Celia?” She said my name. “I’m sure you’re having an enjoyable stay. I’ll try to see you when you get back. After this contract wraps up.”

  A dial tone sang through the earpiece and I hung up the phone. My teeth chattered. I leaned over my soup, my head in my hands. “I’m cold, Gram.” She pulled a knitted throw off a living room chair and wrapped it around my shoulders. Rubbed my back.

  “We’ll get through this. You want to call your dad, or shall I?”

  “I’m not sure. I need to think.” Gram dragged the afghan over her arm as I slid off the stool. “I’m going for a walk by the river.” Aggie ran to the woods when her life went haywire. So could I.

  “Take your time. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  I could hardly see the ground through my tears. I’d just been stabbed. Stabbed in another Mother ambush. And to think Daddy had endured a zillion more.

  I felt ashamed. And selfish. I had frozen Daddy out just like Mother iced me. I had railed at him about how he was like her, but I was blind as a one-eyed mole. The one acting like her? Moi.

  Sure, my dad had left me here in Washington against my will, but what else could he do? I had backed him into a corner. I’d never have come with him, if I’d known he was leaving. And he’d never have let me stay in Texas if I were within a hundred miles of Meredith. He didn’t like this mess any better than I did, but I had snarled at him and my gram as if they had ruined my life.

  I had felt so … justified.

  I stumbled past the garden. The first zinnias were showing color. I absently thought about snipping some for Gram’s table. Later. Reality intruded.

  My mother’s voice thumped my eardrums. Or was it my own? Hadn’t I blistered Daddy? Then when he called to make amends, I still wouldn’t talk with him. Wouldn’t forgive. And what did I do for an encore? I found the best-looking, scariest guy in Northwest Washington and nearly ran away to the cabin with him. I was as myopic as a wild hog.

  Or was I?

  My anger protected me, didn’t it? Didn’t it toughen me up so I could blow off people who hurt me, rather than melting into a puddle when they did? I stopped walking and imagined my face when I yelled at my dad—and at Gram.

  I broke down and wept. Who was I kidding? My anger was merely a cover for my sadness. It didn’t protect me at all. All that monochrome, as Burn put it, was keeping the right people at arm’s length and holding the door wide open for Cabot.

  Well. I’d just have to change trajectory. I could do that. Sure I could. Maybe Burnaby could give me pointers now and then, when I asked, of course. At the very least, I could quit thinking of myself so much. Stand in other people’s shoes for once.

  Or in their bare feet. I’d start with that little girl hiding somewhere in those trees—along that sneaky river. I’d show her she wasn’t alone.

  At the old horse arena, the dogs jumped at the gate. I held my hands to the mesh; they licked my palms. “Not today, girls. You’ll scare off Aggie.” They whined until I crossed over the rise, where the Hawley’s blue meander popped into view. Where is she, river? Where did she sleep? What did she eat?

  Did Aggie know how near she was to Burnaby? When her brother wasn’t at the hospital, he spent most of his time between Gram’s place, the dairy, and those woods. Had she seen him at the farm? Spotted him as he crawled through the brush looking for her? Was that why she was hanging around here? If so, I could narrow my search grid.

  But what made me think I’d find her by myself ? After searchers came up empty downstream, they returned and covered this area repeatedly. I suspected that neither I, nor anyone, would find Aggie without her permission—unless she was trapped. Or dead.

  I panned the woods. She was probably watching me that very minute.

  So I wouldn’t hunt her. I would draw her to me with food and whatever else she might need—like that sweatshirt. She would hear my voice, find the provisions, watch me and decide to trust me. Then she would come to me. Being found would be her decision, not mine.

  Good thing I was breaking up with Cabot. There weren’t enough hours for Aggie and him and those miserable strawberries. This could take time, taming a wild, scared girl. But how much time? How long could she last out there?

  “Aaaaa-gee, Aaaaa-gee.” I sang into the forest and wandered farther downhill, to the first of Burnaby’s bone plates. Did she watch her brother visit the anthills? Had she seen us together?

  I raised my voice. “I know your brother, Aggie. Anything you want me to tell him? He misses you.” I stepped into a sunny patch away from the mosquitoes, listening. “Are you hungry? I can bring you a sandwich.”

  I passed two hills squirming with ants, then stopped and strained my ears. Birdsong echoed behind me. Yellow jackets, smelling lunch’s cheese, I guessed, buzzed near my face. I chatted into the air in a loop along the length of Gram’s property, stalling every fifty feet. Did I truly sense her hiding nearby? Or was hope tricking me?

  Oh, I wanted to save that little bird.

  I returned to the pool where I’d seen her footprints. “Aggie? I know you’re listening. I will not try to catch you and I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk. To help you. To be your friend.”

  A single syllable fell from the trees in response.

  “Why?”

  I froze.

  CHAPTER 31 ~ AGGIE

  Contact

  Her reedy voice dropped into the air behind Celia from above the spring. The second she spoke, Aggie regretted it.

  “Aggie?” Celia’s hands went to her heart.

  Aggie blanched, as a tide of doubt rose in her. What had she done? Had Celia really said she’d bring food? Be my friend? Could Aggie believe her? A hawk lifted from a nearby branch. She rode him with her eyes, flying away.

  Her voice shrank; she forced more words. “Why do you want to help me?”

  Celia moved in a slow circle, searching the trees. “I think you must be lonely. Freaked out. You’ve been hiding for a long time. A friend might, you know, be nice for you.”

  “Only you. Nobody else.”

  “Okay.” Celia inched toward the pond, perusing the canopy.

  “Don’t look or I’ll go away. Look at the ground.”

  “Okay.” Celia sat cross-legged on the ground and rested her forehead on her hands. Kept her eyes on the thick forest duff between her knees.

  “Don’t bring the others again. Promise?”

  “All right. Not even Burnaby?”

  Aggie hiccoughed, stifling a sob.

  “No. No!”

  “But he misses you, Aggie. He can help, too.”

  That lie about Burnaby. Was all of this a lie? To trap her?

  “You bring him, you bring anybody and I’ll disappear. I know how. You’ll never find me.” She did know how.

  “Okay. Nobody but me.” Celia dropped her hands to her knees. Peeked from the corners of her eyes.

  “You try to trick me and I’ll know. I’ll see.”

  “I won’t, Aggie. I promise. Do you—”

  “Stay there until I leave. Count to one hundred.”

  “Got it. Chill
out. Just tell me what I can bring you next time. How will I find you?”

  “You walk and I’ll find you. You tell, you bring anyone, and I won’t. I’ll know.” Her words tripped, tumbled.

  “I’ll be here tomorrow. You hungry?”

  “Yes. So hungry.”

  “I can go get food right now. Want me to run back and—”

  “Count now. You come tomorrow, but I might not.”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  Celia kept her face to the ground and counted, loud enough for Aggie to hear. At one hundred, she stood, her eyes moving in all directions before she raised her hands like a megaphone, as if to call. Lowered them.

  From her hiding place, Aggie saw Celia’s lips move, but couldn’t tell what she said.

  CHAPTER 32 ~ CELIA

  Casket

  Wobbly from my encounter with Aggie, I wound my way through the grassy north field adjoining Loomis’s land and circled back behind Gram’s barn. I hugged my body as if I were holding the child. I’d never kept a secret like this. Could I? Should I? Aggie was starving and alone in a forest populated with large predators. Cougars. Even black bears. She needed people to calm and help her. Give her safety. Shelter. Food.

  How had people frightened her so badly?

  Burnaby’s truck was still behind the barn. How could I not tell him? What if she died before I said anything to her family? Or before I brought her home?

  But if I told him, obedient, responsible Burnaby would tell others. Searchers who loved her and cried for her return would again converge. Aggie would know I squealed and would go somewhere beyond my or anybody’s reach—and smash what was left of their hearts. I would never forgive myself for causing that kind of pain.

  Oh, I wanted to tell them Aggie and I had spoken. At least they’d know she was alive. Would they wait for me to bring her in? Hah. Fat chance. They’d be hunting for her in a heartbeat. No, I couldn’t say a word. Like it or not, she’d be my secret. I had to trust my plan.

  Resolved, I stepped into the workshop, where all my deliberations were promptly flushed by a lamb-sized animal in a wooden box.

  Pi?

  She didn’t jump up when I came in the door. Didn’t position herself between me and Burnaby. Horrified, I dropped to the floor and laid my hand on her side, waiting for the rise and fall of her ribs. Burnaby set his hammer on the workbench, his eyes glassy.

  “What happened?” I stroked the little dog’s muzzle and lifted her flew, exposing white, clammy gums. A fly landed on a black crust on her belly. Not Pi. How much more could Burn take? “What happened?” I asked again.

  Burnaby propped a wooden lid at the end of the box, then sat beside me and petted his dog’s head. His eyes were swollen, his face splotchy. He inhaled sharply and hesitated, as if the words themselves stabbed him. “Pi jumped Cabot. He ran her through with the pitchfork. She fell off the haystack.” His voice was flat, mechanical. His eyes, faraway.

  My lips tightened, pulling at the workshop’s air as if through a tiny straw. “Burnaby, why? Why would Pi attack him?”

  The truth crept into my knowing before he responded. I understood what Pi must have sensed, and what I’d been denying. Beneath that charming exterior, the man was dangerous. I thought of the Camaro screaming toward the dump truck. Cabot took what Cabot wanted, and if something got in his way … I shivered. Hadn’t he said as much? But what could Cabot possibly have against kindhearted, gentle Burnaby? If he would do this—

  “He threatened me. Pi was defending me. Cabot murdered her.” His account sounded rote, like a stock report. The scene swam in my head.

  “Does Loomis know? Does Gram?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t returned.”

  “Burnaby, I am so sorry.” He tensed when I laid my hand on his knee. “It’s okay. I’m as nice as your mama.” I rested my head against him and closed my eyes as a stink wafted from the dog’s body. “We have to bury her.”

  He touched Pi’s shoulder, wiped his knuckles across his wet cheeks and stood when I did.

  I had avoided my grandmother long enough. I stumbled ahead, yelling for her, my voice a croak. She met me at the foot of the porch stairs, her hand at her throat as I wheezed out the awful story. When Burnaby joined us, she pinched his shirt and tugged him to her. Then she climbed a step and touched his face. He stiffened, but she held him there, his cheeks between her hands, her tears spilling. “Dear Burnaby.” She stroked his eyebrows with her thumbs and he closed his eyes. I wrapped my arms around them both.

  When we were breathing again, Gram led us across the lawn. “This is a good spot.” She toed the ground under the tree where she liked to pray.

  “In your yard? I can bury her in the field.”

  “This is better. Close to us. Close to you. If you like, you can stay here. Get your things from the farm and move into that bedroom. Your aunt and uncle won’t mind.” She pointed to a second-story window. Burnaby nodded.

  “I’ll get Pi.”

  I sat on a porch step, elbows on knees, my chin in my hands, as we watched him retreat. “The fire, his parents’ injuries, his sister’s disappearance. And now this.”

  Gram frowned. “I suspect there’s more to come.”

  CHAPTER 33 ~ AGGIE

  Bait

  Secured by twine in a tree-bed, Aggie dreamed of climbing high in a cottonwood, where she hoisted herself through undulating leaves to a hawk’s nest. While another nestling slept, a wobbling eyas flapped its baby wings at her, opened its beak, and chirped in Mama’s musical voice. “Go-o-o-od morn-ing, Aaaa-gee. Ready for breakfast?”

  Warm in the black sweatshirt Celia had left her and clinging to remnants of her broken sleep, Aggie turned her head toward the sound to catch the evaporating dream. Mama, singing through a hawk’s mouth. The melody lingered, beautiful.

  “I’ll put it right here.” The voice again. A girl’s voice. Louder. Closer. Aggie’s eyes flew open, and she stilled her body and breath. A foot crunched tinder beneath her. Whoever was below stopped walking.

  Somebody was crinkling up newspaper. No, the sound was more thumpy, like someone bumping a paper grocery sack. “It’s me, Celia. I brought you a bite to eat. I’ll set it here, on the stump.”

  Panic flooded Aggie, eroding all fragments of the beautiful dream. She knows I’m here! Her nose itched, but she refused to scratch it. Celia. Almost close enough to touch. She waited until the voice faded, then untied herself. A canopy route led her to a decent lookout tree, and she tracked Celia from the branches.

  Celia chatted her way along the trail. “Good morning, Aggie. If you can hear me and you want to talk, I won’t tell.” With every collection of spoken promises, she left a biscuit: one on a stone, another beside the pool, another perched on a head-high branch, like a bird.

  Aggie relaxed a little. Obviously, Celia knew she was in the forest, but didn’t know where. She followed the talking girl, transfixed but suspicious. Why had she decided to trust Celia, of all people? Hadn’t she seen her kiss Cabot?

  If she were Cabot’s girlfriend, surely this was a trap. Those biscuits have something in them to make me sleepy, so she can catch me. Or worse yet, poison. She bristled. How many birds and animals would find the biscuits and die from them? After Celia left, she would gather them all, every one, and throw them in the well, away from unsuspecting eaters. And she wouldn’t talk to that sly girl again.

  But when Celia pulled one from the bag and sank her teeth into the puck-shaped delicacy, Aggie doubted herself. Celia waved the half-eaten biscuit like a hello. “Mm. A bacon biscuit. You’ll like it.” Aggie’s shrunken stomach growled. Nobody else tried to talk to her like Celia did. Was she mistaken about her—and the food? Celia seemed to be the only person who didn’t want to catch Aggie and throw her in jail.

  Aggie shadowed her up the hill until Celia entered Mender’s yard, then scurried down the tree and backtracked, collecting biscuits, tucking each one into her pouched shirt. So what if Celia checked and found the treats gone? For
all she knew, crows or raccoons filched them, the same way raccoons had filched the hidden eggs she missed on Easter. Had those animals been as excited with their hard-boiled eggs as she was at that moment, with a lap full of biscuits?

  She crawled onto the stump near her last sleeping tree and took a slow bite. Buttery flakes and salty bacon bits spread across her tongue. She closed her eyes and chewed. Heavenly. She licked crumbs from her grimy fingertips and chowed down three more before her stomach refused the offering. She hadn’t eaten food cooked by anyone’s hands for such a long, long time.

  Celia. Her friend.

  She definitely needed one. Her calendar marks told her she’d been hiding for over four weeks. Even with summer in full bloom, she never found enough to eat. Blackberries would help, but after they ripened, the weeds and grasses would age to golden, shrivel and toughen, and there’d be even less food.

  And what about later? Cattail stems turned woody, and roots would be harder to get once the water rose with fall rains. She would be cold and would need something besides calluses for shoes. Without a friend, what would she do then—if she lasted that long? Already, she was often dizzy. Climbing took all her strength.

  Celia was so nice to her, so kind. Cabot was probably tricking her, too, like he did her aunt and uncle. Wouldn’t Celia want to know? She toyed with a plan. Not a lot of details in it yet, but her goal was firm. Aggie would stop Cabot from hurting these people she cared about. She retrieved the feed sack with her sweatshirt and baling twine inside and set out.

  Which tree? North of the homestead’s long-crumbled barn, Aggie tapped one old-growth monster whose beefy limbs overhung the alder-studded barnyard. Easy climbing, even if she was carrying supplies. Those arms would hold an actual bed, twice as high as the boughs she’d been tying herself into, and she’d have a view of the cellar. No cougar would attack her way up there, either.

  About eighty feet up, three branches jutted from the trunk like spokes on an olden days wagon wheel, equidistant from the ground, and each as thick as her calf. If Aggie laid more limbs crosswise over them, she could build a hidden, level sleeping platform that would look like an eagle’s nest from below. No more binding herself into contortions in skinny, cougar-free trees where anyone could surprise her.